Snow Angel

by Melanie Jackson

  She giggled.

  “I don’t mind.”

  “Alex, Chloe, this is my aunt, Minerva Cahn. She prefers to be called Minnie. Della is her daughter.” Patrick’s smile and voice were pleasant enough, but not as gentle as when he addressed his “niece,” who I realized couldn’t actually be his niece since Minerva was his aunt and not his sister.

  “How do you do?” I asked, smiling with politeness but not enthusiasm. Blue wasn’t frisking over to meet Minnie either, if that was truly what she wished to be called. And after a look into the arctic of her eyes, I wondered what had happened to Mr. Cahn and if Minnie had been Patrick’s mother’s sister or related to Daddy Warbucks.

  Minerva nodded but said nothing. Before the silence could get awkward, we were joined by another man who looked enough like Patrick that it took no great deductive leap to guess that this was the brother, Andrew. More years had accumulated on his face and he moved with less energy than his brother, though chronologically he was the younger. He also walked with his toes turned slightly in so he waddled and he had a lift on one shoe. I am always sympathetic to people with physical challenges and I wondered in passing whether Andrew’s father had been unkind to him because he was less than perfect physically, and if this was what had driven him to be interested in trains instead of people. I had known women who had turned to horseback riding because it made them feel powerful. Maybe for Andrew, his power came from a train.

  We said our hellos and Minnie decided Alex would be easier to talk to than anyone else, so I was left with Andrew once Patrick departed to answer the phone echoing insistently in another room. The space was vast enough that the phone was barely audible when there was a lull in conversation, but the ringing could almost be felt, an uneasy, modern vibration of air that should be still. Blue, the fickle and faithless creature, had left us to play with Della who was crawling under the piano, but I noticed her ears twitching each time the phone shrilled.

  Conversation was a bit of an upstream swim since I was the only one trying to make it happen. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about Andrew backing me into a corner and regaling me with stories of the great trains of the world. Which actually might be kind of interesting, since I was tired of talking about the weather and no other subject was on offer.

  I noticed that Alex was keeping his distance from Minnie and so was Blue. Something about her made me think of a hospital, or perhaps more accurately, a veterinarian’s office. I wondered for a moment if she was a vet, but dismissed the idea. Her indifference to Blue was too marked.

  As we drew near the fire, I introduced the subject of trains to Andrew and received a distracted invitation to come see the Foley Express. I asked about coal consumption. He gave me an incomprehensible answer that involved metric tons. I accepted defeat and asked Alex if he was feeling tired.

  He caught my drift and pleaded exhaustion.

  Though Alex and I had a lot to learn before we could begin to understand the personalities and motivations of the people at the hotel and what dynamics were at work among the residents and employees, we were awfully drained and I was happy to accept Patrick’s suggestion that we might like to rest once he rejoined us. Unless we wanted a bite to eat….

  We declined food and Della happily guided us to our room, chatting about all the fun things we could do like ice-skating and skiing and building snowmen. Our room was on the second floor. The quarters were named rather than numbered and we were in the Silver Suite. Our room wasn’t as large as the name suggested, but it was very elegant in its subdued red velvets and aged leathers, and I was happy to see the small fire burning on the hearth of the Franklin stove. If it were my hotel, I would use electric fires in the rooms for reasons of safety, but I have to admit that the smell of the burning wood was welcome and made the experience more authentic.

  Della made me promise again to bring Blue to make snow angels. I think she actually wanted Blue to come sleep with her—which I understand. Children who love animals should have pets to sleep with.

  Though it was not the best bedtime story for someone who was unsettled, I had Alex tell me again about the accidents/vandalisms at the hotel while I changed into my nightgown. It had started with a broken fuel line on a snowplow and went on to minor plumbing and electrical problems with the hotel itself. Nothing that required a specific body of knowledge to implement—a loose fuse here, an unscrewed nut there—so we weren’t necessarily looking for a mechanical genius. It might even actually be bad luck, but I didn’t think so—not all the way down in my gut. Not after meeting some of the people at the hotel.

  So, if not an accident then what? And why? The incidents Alex described didn’t seem entirely haphazard, and they didn’t have the crazy feel of someone who was a maniac and randomly persecuting the hotel or owner. Nor did they strike me as something that was done as a practical joke, though heaven knows there are people with odd senses of humor, so one couldn’t rule it out.

  This situation seemed, at least the way Alex presented it, like a deliberate and escalating campaign to keep the hotel from opening. And if it was deliberate, I didn’t think it would stop once the hotel had opened its doors, which was cause for concern. No one had been hurt yet by the things that had gone wrong, but electricity was nothing to fool around with. And a cut fuel line could become a cut brake line and that would be no joke on the steep road coming up—or going down—the mountain.

  Assuming the incidents weren’t just very bad luck. They could be. After all, the hotel was old and even with upgrading to the building code twenty years ago, some things were bound to have fallen into ill repair through two decades of disuse. Alex was thinking sabotage because Patrick was thinking that way, but it was too early in the investigation to make that assumption. Even if my gut said otherwise.

  I rolled over in the very comfortable bed and stared at the window covered only by a lace curtain. I always feel a little strange sleeping in a new place. Having Blue and Alex there helped, but I was feeling disoriented and wishing I could stop worrying and have some normal, Christmas kinds of thoughts instead of snarls of suspicion that had to remain snarled until I had more data.

  Perhaps guessing my state of mind, Blue’s tail thumped from her spot near the fire. Beside me, I could hear Alex breathing and I reminded myself that there was no reason to feel ill at ease. We were in a strange place, but we were all together, a family, and that was all that mattered.

  Then, as I slipped into sleep, I had a last notion. All the malice had been directed at the hotel and/or Patrick. So far, nothing had been done to the train or Andrew. Was that because trains were harder to sabotage? Or was someone after Patrick, but not his brother?

  Chapter 2

  Morning came before I was ready for it. Alex was headed downstairs to use the gym and then to begin consuming the necessary gallons of coffee that started his morning while I brushed the sleepy from my eyes and grumbled about winter. This athleticism of my beloved spouse was of no interest to me when there were so many fun outdoor ways to exhaust myself—when I was ready. I asked Blue what she wanted to do and she agreed that outdoors was better than the gym and continued to nap on the rug.

  I kissed Alex and then went to take a shower. That almost always wakes me up and I hoped it would help with the wake-up crankies.

  The lobby was not entirely empty as I swept down the staircase a half hour later. I met three more of the employees, though the waiter and the assistant chef hurried away at once after being introduced, putting me in mind of people accused of embarrassing crimes trying to hide from the cameras outside the courthouse.

  At a suggestion from Hillary Jones, who was the chauffer, groom, and sleigh handler, I borrowed one of the many sets of snowshoes kept in a barrel by the side door we had used the night before. Hillary was small and dark haired, and he dressed in jeans and a wool plaid shirt and down vest that was more appropriate for the stables than minding the front desk. Like the other two men, he wasn’t terribly talkative and disinclined to meet my
gaze, but he wasn’t furtive and liked Blue, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt.

  I have used snowshoes in the past and so had no trouble strapping on a pair and heading out into the cold unknown with something that passed for confidence. I worried for Blue at first, but the snow wasn’t that deep and she was game. If she tired, we would turn back from exploring and go visit Hillary and the horses.

  The morning stillness was absolute. The snow and squall that had battered the mountain had gone and without apparent calamity. There wasn’t even any wind to whisper at us. Blue and I might have been the only living creatures on the mountain.

  “It’ll be fun to go exploring,” I insisted, though I gave a small shiver and thought about delaying our venture until I had had some breakfast and maybe some company.

  I turned to look at the hotel. At a hundred feet out, it still loomed. Without the twinkle lights glowing cheerily it looked a bit more sinister than it did welcoming. It wasn’t the sort of place where the Brady Bunch would vacation, I decided. The Munsters maybe. Or the Addams Family. But not middle America with two kids and a golden retriever.

  But then, Patrick wasn’t trying to appeal to the “with children” class.

  The air was cold enough to hurt the lungs, so I pulled my scarf over my mouth as we crunched down the narrow path to the train station that Hillary had indicated as being the shortest route down the mountain before disappearing into the barn. The path was constricted in many spots but clearly marked by wrought iron pikes topped with fir trees or prancing deer. They appeared every thirty feet or so, and my eyes started looking for them instead of trying to read the ground whose features were mostly lost under the new snow. When a marker failed to appear at the proper interval I began to slow my steps and feel slightly anxious that we had gone astray, though there had been no fork or turning. We were in one of the wider sections of trail so I stopped to look around. Finally I saw the iron fir, but it was leaning slightly to one side and seemed quite a way off what looked like the proper track.

  I took half a dozen steps toward the marker but Blue growled and grabbed the hem of my coat.

  “Blue?” I asked, wondering if there was some wild animal nearby, and hoping it wasn’t a wolf. I began to turn back but felt the snow giving way under my right shoe as I pivoted. I squeaked with alarm as I lost my balance.

  I fell onto my side and heard a crack. The pike and the snow ledge disappeared under my shoulders into the canyon below. It wasn’t deep, but to my panicked brain it seemed filled with rocks that looked very sharp. I would have gone over too but I managed to grab a low tree branch. It ripped loose from the tree, bringing a small avalanche of snow and pinecones down on me, which added to my weight, but Blue still had hold of my coat and she dragged me back by my furry hem, growling fiercely all the while.

  For once I was happy about being small and didn’t mind the tear in my new parka.

  “Damn!” My first reaction to the close call was naturally fear, but it was replaced almost instantly by anger. I raged silently while I caught my breath and clung to Blue as I scooted further from the crumbling edge, but stopped myself just before I had reached an actual hysterical snit and caused an avalanche with cussing and screaming.

  Think!

  What had just happened? Because Patrick was worried about vandalism and pranks, I had instantly assumed that the pike had been deliberately moved so that it would cause a hiker to fall. But might this have been a genuine accident? Maybe the marker was where it should be and the narrow trail had just decided to give way under me because the rock was rotten and it was just time for nature to take its course. Or there had been an ice ledge under the snow that finally fractured and fell away. That made more sense than assuming this was a deliberate act. After all, the hotel people would know the proper path, and there weren’t any guests besides Alex and me. And why would anyone object to our coming and try to hurt us? Surely Patrick hadn’t changed his mind and announced to everyone that he was bringing in a detective to investigate. He had been adamant the week before that he wanted Alex to be discrete.

  Beyond that, the trail would also be checked before the hotel opened and the misplaced marker discovered and fixed, so this was a pretty pointless prank. And one that could have proven deadly. So far, no one had been endangered by the incidents that had happened around the hotel. Maybe I was overreacting.

  Exhaling a large cloud, I got to my feet. I shook my head and swiped at my hair, trying to dislodge the worst of the snowy debris. I noticed pitch on my gloves and hoped there was none in my hair.

  So, did I go back? Or go on?

  “Okay, you pick the way, Blue. No more trusting markers.”

  Blue woofed and went back to where I had thought the trail should be and continued down the mountain. I followed slowly, wishing I had just taken the road.

  Before long we came to the miniature train station by a flat area that I assumed was a parking lot for the hotel guests’ cars. The small yellow building was charming, swagged with greenery and large red bows and decked with more of the ubiquitous twinkle lights. Someone had been out to sweep the platform and I suspected it was Andrew who had performed this duty, though I saw no sign of him in the building.

  The train was there as well, resting under a covered roof, a sort of gable extended from the station itself. Foley’s Express was not enormous, but it wasn’t some child’s amusement park railroad attraction either. After the engine and the coal car there was a dining car done in beautiful walnut and red velvet, which I suspected was used for cocktails and not actual eating since the run to the hotel was so short. I wasn’t rude enough to go in without an invitation, but I peeped in the windows after wiping away the stray snow. Another car was done up as a Victorian parlor in gilt and blue damask. There was a long brass coat rack and a small potbelly stove that vented out the side of the train. It was surrounded by a gleaming brass railing that had probably been installed at the insistence of the insurance company who didn’t like the equation of climbing train, cocktails, and a burning stove. The whole thing was elegant and beautiful in an old-fashioned way, and I found myself hoping that we would get to ride the train before we left. I wondered if Blue would like train travel. She gets carsick—which I know may make some people laugh when they think about our travels, but there is nothing funny about an animal in distress. But perhaps she would do better someplace larger that didn’t make so many hairpin turns.

  Last was a caboose used for hauling supplies and guests’ luggage. Andrew told me this when he caught me jumping up and down on the platform, trying to see in the curtained windows.

  “Come aboard,” he suggested, opening the rear door of the caboose. His breath fogged the air. “I have some coffee on.”

  “Will you mind Blue?” I asked, mounting the metal step at the rear of the train and turning to help Blue if she needed it.

  Andrew hesitated a moment and then said, “Not at all. She probably won’t want to see the rest of the train anyway.”

  I didn’t correct his misapprehension, but Blue would be polite and wait in the caboose if I asked her to.

  The obvious care lavished on the cars had made me feel warmer toward Andrew, and I was able to smile naturally when he offered me a cup of coffee after the short tour. There was a small bunk in the caboose and I wondered if he slept there when the weather was warmer. And maybe even when it wasn’t.

  Andrew didn’t sneer at my many questions. He seemed to feel that my ignorance of steam trains was a cause for pity rather than censure, and was willing to enlighten me on all particulars. I wanted to know about sabotaging trains and tried to discover the how-to of it while remaining discrete. It had again occurred to me that nothing had been done to the train or the station and I wondered if that was because it was difficult to damage the train, or perhaps not worthwhile in terms of time and effort until there were guests to be inconvenienced. Or maybe no one could get at it because Andrew was always there.

  Patrick’s brother eventually ran out
of things to show me and offered to walk me back to the hotel. This wasn’t gallantry. He wanted breakfast.

  Andrew’s coat was also made of the local favorite wool, but the pattern was one of dark blues and greens that reminded me of a Black Watch plaid. I couldn’t tell for sure, but it appeared to be dry. It didn’t seem likely he had been out that morning, walking trails and disarranging markers.

  On the way we ran into Della, who asked hopefully if Blue and I wanted to make snow angels. Especially Blue. Andrew wasn’t asked to join in the fun and didn’t stay to watch. I could have done without any more rolling in the snow, but agreed to make one angel since I had promised. Blue was also willing, though when she rolled onto her back and squirmed she made a shape that looked like a fat version of the Liberty Bell.

  Della found this hilarious.

  “So,” I asked casually, “have you noticed anyone skulking around the trail this morning?”

  “Skulking?”

  “Being stealthy,” I explained. “Sneaking.”

  “Oh.” Della flopped onto her back again. I estimated that she had to be about fifteen, but she seemed a lot younger. “Everyone stealths around here. Though I didn’t see anyone this morning.”

  She seemed to savor the word stealth.

  “Do they? I wonder why.” I brushed at Blue’s snowy fur, making sure that I didn’t sound too interested. Children can be sensitive and not always discrete.

  “Well, the staff isn’t supposed to make noise, in case it bothers the guests. Uncle Patrick says they need to try to be invisible. I’m supposed to be quiet too. We use the service stairs.” She made “service stairs” sound like “secret stairs.” I thought this also explained why the waiter and assistant chef had hurried away like I had highly contagious cooties.

  “Sounds reasonable.”

  “Uncle Andrew stealths because he doesn’t want to talk to anyone. My mom thinks he’s shy on account of he used to limp. Also he doesn’t like people.” She sounded very matter-of-fact. Obviously she wasn’t taking his rejection personally.